


A Knight to Remember (SFW Version)

by cx_shhhh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, I do what I want, Mutual Pining, Rule 63, Swordfighting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, it's an au so don't @ me, mutual simping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/pseuds/cx_shhhh
Summary: People come from far and wide for a chance to marry the princess, but she will have none of it. Not when she is already in love with another.Note: this is the "clean" version ofthis.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	A Knight to Remember (SFW Version)

**Author's Note:**

> [Malin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleAreScary) contributed to so much of this. Keep feeding me ideas.
> 
> [Mandy (a.k.a. mandilorian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandilorian/pseuds/mandilorian), I love and appreciate you for making this seem more coherent.
> 
> As always, [Haley](https://halyeya.tumblr.com/), thank you for going "omg this is so good" when it isn't and going :D when I bring up potential fanart ideas.
> 
> Disclaimer if you didn't read the tags: this isn't historically accurate. It's in a universe that I more or less created.

“Seriously, I don’t want to be married off to some random fool!” Grantaire yells angrily, clutching at the fabric of her dress. “I hate to be so disobedient, but this is my freedom you’re giving away here!”

The queen strokes her hair while she sobs. Joly and Bossuet watch her carefully from the corner, as if almost afraid to approach. If anything, Grantaire would be so willing to inherit the throne and rule by herself. Fuck the patriarchy, after all. The king remains resolute in his decision, even after his daughter begs and prostrates at his feet.

“Hush, child, and rise. You’re not meant to kneel,” he says, and Grantaire throws her hands up in exasperation.

“Yet I’m meant to be sent away to be the shy, demure wife of some man twice my age? No offense, Mother, you’re great, but that is _not_ appealing at all,” she replies, blinking back her tears.

“I doubt you’ll ever be considered ‘shy,’ but please, do consider this. We will hold a tournament for all the best knights and princes of the kingdom to fight for your hand, and only the worthiest may have you as his bride,” the king insists, and that makes Grantaire even angrier.

“Oh, so now I’m meant to be a prize. How gratifying. Amazing. I’m not even worth my own life anymore!”

Mid-eyeroll, an idea comes to mind. If Grantaire is not given the option to choose her own future spouse, then she will not marry at all. Briefly, she wishes Enjolras could be here to fight for her hand. Instead, she is away and fighting a war for the people, something she had always wanted to do after achieving knighthood. Something as trivial as a tournament would never take her away from her glorious cause. Grantaire can only hope that she hasn’t been forgotten.

* * *

Grantaire huffs, “I can go again! I can tell you’re holding back!”

Enjolras sets down her own practice sword and replies, “You’re the princess. Eventually, you’ll only need to worry about repairing clothes and entertaining guests when you are married to _your future husband_.”

She spits out that last part with more venom than Grantaire has ever heard her from Enjolras, and they plop down heavily into the grass. Sometimes, Grantaire envies her. Enjolras is training to become a knight, and being a knight means she will have more freedom than Grantaire can ever wish for. Granted, there are rules and codes, but Enjolras will always have the choice to never marry. Grantaire cannot say the same. She’s only fifteen, yet all her parents seem to talk about is which prince or noble will make the best union, and how she is much too wild to be a proper princess. There are no bigger busybodies in the court than the king and queen, it seems.

Grantaire has no qualms against getting married for the benefit of the kingdom, but she knows for a fact that all those rich, snobbish suitors her parents have considered would never give a single care about her future subjects. If only she could stay with Enjolras forever and travel on a horse and maybe even braid flowers into each other’s hair. Fighting a bandit or two would be fun too! She sighs. All this is merely wishful thinking.

Enjolras nudges her side and asks, “Why the long face? Someone as pretty as you should never have to frown.”

Grantaire dutifully ignores the backhanded compliment and says, “What’s it to you? Is my face not worthy of entertaining you? Isn’t that all I’m good for? I just wish I could be free. No castles or kingdoms or arranged marriages.”

“Don’t give up hope yet. Who knows, maybe you’ll fight your way out, but that will never happen unless you practice more,” Enjolras rubs her shoulder. “That was uncalled for and we both know I didn’t mean it, and for that, I am sorry.”

She smiles, and Grantaire’s heart lurches.

“You’re the one who stopped! I could’ve kept going,” Grantaire protests, picking her sword back up. Without a second thought, she swings it, but her sword gets parried by Enjolras’s. It is hard to think in the midst of sparring. She takes out her frustrations in each thrust and in each swing, but she forgets to block. Within a minute, Enjolras has her on the floor with her sword at her neck.

“You get distracted too easily. This isn’t meant to be an opportunity to lash out. You must defend yourself first before attacking,” she explains before lending Grantaire a hand up. She takes the proffered hand and yelps as she’s pulled up, nearly falling straight into Enjolras’s arms.

Grantaire brushes her nightgown off and pouts, “I just have so much rattling around in my brain, and sparring with you is my only escape. It’s why I seek you out in the middle of the night when my parents expect me to be asleep in a bed that’s far too big for one person.”

“I’m almost offended that you don’t drag me out of bed just to see me,” Enjolras teases, eyes glimmering with mirth. Grantaire elbows her in retaliation.

“I do! You just have… very valuable assets that I could benefit greatly from.”

“Right. Sure.”

* * *

Grantaire glances around before quickly darting into Feuilly’s shop and greeting the blacksmith with a cheery wave. She chirps, “Good morning! How are you on this fine day?”

“Your Highness, I know for a fact that you’re up to some mischief or other if you’re so happy,” Feuilly replies. “But I’m doing well, I think. Business is doing well, especially since you recommended me.”

Grantaire gives her a hug and wheedles, “This matters a lot to me. As you probably know, there’s a tournament where my suitors fight to the death or something like that for the opportunity to marry me.”

“Yes? I’ve been getting a lot of requests recently, and I assume that’s also your doing,” Feuilly replies, hugging her back. “Let me guess, you want armor and a sword.”

Grantaire feigns shock and indignantly asks, “Who do you think I am? Me? In stuffy armor?”

“My creations are not stuffy, highness.”

“You can call me R, and I wouldn’t know. Unless… you made me a set? I’d pay you, of course.”

Feuilly sighs and pretends to ponder it before asking, “How much?”

Grantaire cheers and thanks her generously. There is a new spring to her step that hasn’t been there since her parents approached her about the tournament. She sneaks back into the palace through the kitchen and waves at the head cook, who pretends to look frustrated but couldn’t help a small grin from appearing when she looks at Grantaire.

“Thank you, madame. Have a nice day!”

Madame Houcheloup shoos her away fondly, and Grantaire blows her a kiss before skipping back to her room. Throughout her lessons later that day, she cannot stop quivering in excitement while Fantine gives up on trying to get her to line up her stitches.

“Your Highness, don’t get me wrong, and I’m very happy that you’re no longer gloomy, but what’s with the sudden change in disposition?” Fantine asks before taking the embroidery from Grantaire’s hands before she can poke herself with the needle again.

“Oh, nothing! Since there’s nothing I can do, why should I waste my days away all sad and depressed when I can just resign to my inevitable fate?”

“Hmm, okay. I can’t decide if that outlook is better or worse than yesterday. Just know that I will always want the best for you, dear,” Fantine replies, and Grantaire nods.

“You’re like a second mother to me, Fantine,” she says, and they spend the rest of the hour stitching in peace.

At the end of the day, Joly helps Grantaire out of her dress and brushes her hair while Bossuet runs a bath. Joly and Bossuet, her handmaidens, also double as her closest confidants, so Grantaire has no qualms against them knowing about her plans.

Joly tsks, “Don’t even try to lie to me, R. I know that you went to see Feuilly this morning.”

“I’m going to participate in the tournament, so I may win my own hand,” Grantaire announces, waving her hand when Bossuet tries to interrupt. “And before you say anything, I know it’s a long shot, but I’d rather have any chance at my own freedom than no chance at all.”

Both of them kiss her cheeks and continue doing their tasks without another word. When Grantaire is finally stripped of her clothing, she sinks into the tub and sighs happily. Bossuet washes her hair as she had for the past half-decade. When Grantaire told her that she could do it herself, Bossuet claimed that because she might not have any hair of her own to take care of, tending to Grantaire’s is both an honor and a pleasure.

Grantaire just shook her head and said, “Whatever you say, Bossuet. And for the record, I wish I could pull off being bald as well as you do.”

Now, she leans back into her touch and sighs as Bossuet massages her scalp gently with lavender-scented soap. Her hair is the one vanity Grantaire allows herself to have. At least, that’s what everyone else claims when they see her. They all talk about how long and lovely it is, and she would cut it all off if not for the fact that Bossuet loves it almost as much as she does. Well, then they begin gushing over how blue her eyes are and how soft and rosy her cheeks are, so trying to get rid of her entire face would seem a little excessive.

Joly dries her and wraps her in a robe, moving as quickly as possible lest she catches cold. Grantaire thinks Joly might just be overreacting, but she lets her do her job because she does it well.

“Thanks, Joly. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says. “You too, Boss.”

“Likely, you’ll sit in the corner in dismay and pout all day. I know you’re exceedingly capable with a sword or with a paintbrush, but absolutely hopeless at taking care of yourself,” Joly replies as she pulls a nightgown over Grantaire’s head. “But that’s why we’re here, and I would not have it any other way.”

Grantaire blushes and looks down at her lap until Bossuet tilts her chin back up and tuts, “Keep your head held high, princess.”

“You’re not my etiquette tutor,” Grantaire says, glaring at her friend. Bossuet just laughs and lets the subject drop, but not before pinching her cheek.

“I’m not, but you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the pleasure to serve, inside and out, so chin up, R, and you will get through anything.”

Grantaire sniffles and wipes her eyes on her sleeve, asking, “When did you two become such big saps? I love you guys.”

“And we love you too,” Joly replies, and the three of them fall into a cuddle pile on the bed because they’re fucking allowed to. That is how Grantaire falls asleep, squished in between two of her favorite people in the world and feeling thoroughly warm.

The next few months pass by in a blur, and knights and princes from all over the country flock in. They are all exceedingly annoying too, always “accidentally” wandering into Grantaire’s corridor or trying to disrupt her when all she wants to do is paint or embroider in peace. Meanwhile, the princess they’re all vying for trains restlessly before dawn and after dusk. Bahorel, the trusted captain of the guard, spars with her occasionally, and Grantaire makes her promise not to speak a word of it to her parents. Most of all, she calls upon the knowledge that Enjolras shared with her all those years ago.

Grantaire sneaks out of the palace a couple of weeks before the tournament to collect the armor and sword Feuilly carefully crafted. She has been visiting the workshop regularly to check in on the progress, but the blacksmith always shielded it from view. The only time Feuilly was not so secretive was when she had to take measurements and ordered Grantaire to strip down to just her undergarments.

“M’lady, you’re early,” Feuilly greets and kisses both of Grantaire’s cheeks. “And curious.”

Grantaire stops trying to peek around her friend and turns red. She inwardly curses her average height and pleads, “I’m just excited! Please, please, let me see.”

“Okay, just sit down or something because you’re making me nervous,” Feuilly replies, and Grantaire does so, quivering in anticipation. When she finally sets her eyes on the armor, they go wide in awe. Feuilly has really outdone herself this time.

“Oh,” Grantaire breathes, running her fingers over each engraved vine reverently. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

Feuilly helps her into it, making sure that everything fits comfortably before handing her the scabbard. The sword is equally majestic, weighted perfectly when she grasps it. An emerald winks in the center of the hilt and the blade is so polished that Grantaire can see her own reflection in it.

“May you win your own hand in marriage, highness, and I would be honored that you do so with a sword of my creation,” Feuilly says, breaking her out of her awe.

“I won’t let you down,” Grantaire promises and slides the sword back into its sheath with a satisfying _shink_. The armor gets gently wrapped back up and set on the worktable. She hands Feuilly a hefty pouch of coins, and tells her to have her armor transported to the palace in secret and that the princess herself has requested that it remain covered should anyone question it.

On the way back to her room, she gets stopped once by a neighboring prince who introduces himself as Claquesous and then twice more after she refuses to acknowledge him. When he trails his fingers through Grantaire’s hair for the third time, her eyebrows twitch. She reaches out and catches his wrist.

“I’m not sure if playing with ladies’ hair is a custom from where you hail, but I assure you, touching someone without their permission is _not_ the way to gain any additional favors,” she snaps. “And I would greatly appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself from now on.”

“Ooh, Princess High and Mighty has quite the mouth on her! Perhaps your lovely lips would love to be kissed by mine, and then you won’t have any other complaints,” Claquesous grins cockily, twisting his arm out of Grantaire’s grasp and attempting to kiss the hand that had just released his. Absolutely done with his bullshit, she yanks her hand back and turns on her heel, marching back to her room.

Grantaire refuses to let such a joyous day be ruined by some asshole prince, so she sits on her bed and reads a romance novel, allowing herself to be taken away from reality. Honestly, she wouldn’t mind getting whisked off her feet by someone she falls in love with, but nobody has ever wanted to try hard enough with her. The one person she did manage to fall in love with, however, likely never intended for it to happen.

Even thinking about Enjolras hurts a little and makes Grantaire, an adult woman, want to curl up in a ball under a pile of blankets. Enjolras never did anything wrong. She always had the best in mind, likely saving entire kingdoms from falling. She probably has young maidens falling at her feet and offering to share their beds, not knowing that she would politely decline because that’s just an Enjolras thing to do. Only justice is worthy enough to pursue, and Grantaire was probably just something else getting in her way.

That’s how Joly and Bossuet find her in the evening, asleep in her day attire and laid across the covers of her bed. They look at each other and back at the princess with nothing but fond exasperation. She has been known to tire herself out with excitement or something of the sort.

Joly gently shakes her awake and whispers, “Wake up, Your Highness.”

“Huh?” Grantaire mumbles, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Oh, hello.”

“We were worried when you didn’t show up for dinner,” Joly explains, helping her up.

Bossuet nods, “It was kind of rough. Everyone kept asking for you, and by everyone, I mean the king and queen and all your suitors. I have never wanted to tell everyone to simply shut up as much as I did in the past hour or two.”

Grantaire frowns and apologizes, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t even mean to fall asleep. I was probably tired from training and then going into town and then this _prince_ kept trying to flirt with me and then I was thinking about-”

She cuts off before she can say too much, and her friends look at her sympathetically. Joly soothes, “It’s okay, R. We all miss her. At least she has Combeferre and Courfeyrac to keep her company.”

“Yeah. Anyway, do you think Madame Houcheloup would get mad if I stole a pastry?” Grantaire asks, swinging her legs off the bed. She shoves her feet into slippers and tries to smooth away the wrinkles on her dress.

“I don’t think anyone could be mad at you, per se, but we brought some leftovers and tea just in case,” Bossuet replies.

“You are a blessing, darling. And you too, Joly,” Grantaire says with a smile. They pull out chairs and sit at the princess’s desk, chattering away while eating. Joly and Bossuet leave once Grantaire is back in her nightgown with her hair plaited down her back. For a moment, she considers going back out to train some more but ultimately decides against it.

She jumps at the sound of a knock and cracks the door open.

“Delivery for the princess,” Gavroche announces. “Why so late is beyond me, Your Highness.”

Grantaire thanks him and takes the wrapped parcels one at a time, setting them down carefully. Gavroche stares at them curiously, but Grantaire simply winks and hands over a few extra coins for his service. She presses her back against the door and breathes a sigh of relief. She had almost forgotten about her armor and sword after falling asleep, and it is honestly a relief that nobody had questioned it.

Eagerly, Grantaire tears into the wrappings and grins when the familiar glint of metal greets her. She assembles and arranges the suit of armor and pushes it into her closet, out of sight of anyone who would snoop. The sword remains sheathed and hidden in a similar fashion.

The princess falls asleep to thoughts of defeating her opponents and their looks of shock when they discover who beat them.

A fanfare announces the day of the tournament. Flags of every color of the rainbow fly high above each house in the stands of the arena. Upon Grantaire’s request, Éponine had signed up for her under the name “Hyacinthus”. It took her forever to come up with a name that wouldn’t give herself away, but she is proud to see it on the bracket. This is just one step closer to victory.

When the tournament officially begins, Grantaire settles in the royal box next to her mother, fanning her dress out in the way that all proper princesses are supposed to. She shares a discrete look with Bossuet and relaxes to watch and look for powerful opponents. When the first duel is announced, Grantaire’s eyes widen in surprise, and her lips start to tremble. Her mother shifts next to her, and her father’s mouth tightens. _There is no way._

But yes, apparently. There is no mistaking the golden hair that shines in the sunlight because Enjolras is too stubborn to wear a helmet. They’re much too stuffy, she said, two years ago. Perhaps Enjolras came back for a break and couldn’t resist the chance to show up some cocky bastards. That is the only viable explanation Grantaire can come up with because she is certainly not back for the chance to marry a princess. Grantaire can only stare as Enjolras parries and thrusts with frightening accuracy and precision. It doesn’t even take a minute for her to have her opponent on the ground and her sword pointed at his neck. Grantaire hates how easily impressed she is, but then again, Enjolras always exceeds expectations.

After the second duel, Grantaire announces, “I don’t wish to watch any longer. I think it might be better if I don’t end up rooting for someone who might disappoint me later.”

The king dismisses her with a flick of a wrist, so she stands up and joins Bossuet, who takes her down to a sheltered piece of land. There, she quickly changes into trousers and a shirt, and Joly helps her slide on each piece of armor. She binds her hair and somehow manages to tuck it all into her helmet.

The crowd murmurs with excitement when Grantaire arrives because none of them recognize the name announced. She may look a little odd because she’s much shorter than any of the men and even Enjolras, and she is without a page or a crest, but that doesn’t matter. The whole reason she is here is to prove her own worth.

Grantaire’s opponent is strong, but she is fast. Every single one of his swings are blocked, but he keeps going, likely hoping to tire her out. There is a reason the princess practiced daily, and she sends thanks to whoever may listen when one particularly lucky strike causes the man to fall on his back. She is declared victorious, and Grantaire holds a hand out to her opponent. He removes his helmet and thanks her graciously, bowing. She merely nods in return and briefly mourns the fact that she had to knock such a polite gentleman out of the running.

Grantaire watches the rest of the first round from her hiding place, never removing her helmet until she takes a drink of water. She mops the sweat from her brow and hands the cloth back to Joly.

“You did well out there, R.”

Grantaire makes an incoherent noise in response and says, “Thanks, but there’s still so far to go.”

Bossuet hands her helmet back over, and she pulls it on. She flips her visor over her eyes.

“Wish me luck.”

Joly snorts, “As if you need it, Your Highness.”

It isn’t until her fourth duel that Grantaire has to go up against Claquesous. She smiles secretly behind her mask but refuses to get too cocky. She can only hope that he is just as bad at fighting as he is at flirting.

As it turns out, Claquesous is not a bad swordsman at all. Grantaire can’t seem to land a single hit and spends most of their duel furiously blocking each thrust of his sword. She feels herself growing more and more exhausted as Claquesous seems to grow stronger by the minute. When Grantaire doesn’t think she can even lift her sword anymore, she grits her teeth and briefly times each of her opponent's movements before finally finding an opening. With one last surge of adrenaline, she disarms Claquesous.

Panting, Grantaire almost wants to remove her helmet right there in front of her entire audience, but just barely refrains from doing so. She can soak in her own sweat for a little longer. Briefly, she realizes that defeating Claquesous means she had just advanced to the final round, and she wonders who her opponent may be.

“Joly, have you been keeping track of each round?” Grantaire asks when she finally gets to sit down and rest her weary limbs.

“Um, yes, but you won’t like the results,” Joly replies, wringing her hands nervously.

Grantaire sets down the flask of water and tilts her head questioningly, “Just tell me who it is.”

Bossuet interjects, “Enjolras. It’s Enjolras. So you need to decide exactly what you want to do.”

The princess inhales sharply, not bothering to reply in favor of letting her mind run away from her. The final duel is not scheduled until the next day, so she still has time to determine whether she wants to forfeit or not.

* * *

Nothing gives Enjolras the same thrill as fighting for a purpose. However, after a long period of time of nothing but clashing swords with the same people, she wanted something new. When Courfeyrac, who stays updated on news via letters to and from the capital, mentioned something about the princess getting married, Enjolras felt, not for the first time, something akin to jealousy. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, turning even the best into worthless fools, but to witness Grantaire be wedded to someone who will likely only use her for political gains or make her into an ornament would be unthinkable.

Therefore, Enjolras does the only thing that makes sense at the moment: she enters the tournament. Courfeyrac and Combeferre gladly accompany her back to the capital, leaving the war for good this time. She can tell that they are all tired and in need of a change of pace. What Enjolras wants the most, however, is to see the princess again, regardless of whether she wants to see her in return.

Back in town, the trio of knights astride their horses gets many looks of awe, and more than a few ladies offer Enjolras flowers that she kindly rejects. Flowers are nice and all, but she simply doesn’t know what she would do with them. She does know that Grantaire would know exactly what to do. Maybe she would weave them into her hair or into a circlet or paint them. Enjolras smiles, wondering what the princess does to pass her time these days.

The next day, Enjolras puts on her polished armor, leaving the helmet with the rest of her belongings. Courfeyrac helps her braid her blonde hair into something more manageable, and Combeferre hands her her sword.

“Go get your future wife, Enj!” Courfeyrac crows excitedly, and Enjolras rolls her eyes.

“It should really be up to the princess who she marries or whether or not she marries at all. I’m merely entering so that if I win, she may decide for herself.”

Combeferre places a hand on her shoulder and says, “Chivalrous as ever, I see. We only wish you the best.”

In the arena, Enjolras looks up into the stands and just barely dodges her opponent’s first swing. In the royal box, Grantaire sits, looking as radiant as ever, but her expression seems to be a lot more closed off than Enjolras remembers. It’s justified as Grantaire _is_ literally witnessing her freedom slowly slip through her fingers, so Enjolras promises to herself to try as hard as possible to win the tournament.

Knowing that the princess has her beautiful blue eyes fixed on her, or at least in her general direction, Enjolras feels her heart pump faster and her veins fill with adrenaline. She is declared the victor in record time, clearly impressing the crowd.

During the second round, Enjolras searches the stands again and frowns upon noticing that Grantaire has disappeared. She shrugs and fights her way through, not even bothering to look back when she advances forward. The number of competitors slowly but surely whittles down until Enjolras knocks another out of the bracket. Her final opponent is none other than the mysterious, but skilled, Hyacinthus.

Through it all, Grantaire’s seat remains empty.

Usually, Enjolras is the first to awaken, but the next morning, she takes just a little more time to drag herself out of bed. Courfeyrac asks her too many questions when they eat breakfast, but she tries to answer them all. Combeferre listens attentively and only asks after the princess.

Enjolras sighs, “She was there for my first duel but disappeared right afterwards.”

Combeferre adjusts her glasses and replies, “Perhaps Her Highness doesn’t want to witness the fighting. Or she has resigned herself to her fate and wants to enjoy her last moments as an unmarried woman in peace.”

This causes Enjolras to frown and ask, “The princess I know would never shy away from a good duel… unless two years apart has changed her more than I initially thought.”

Courfeyrac squeezes her hand, saying, “I’m sure she’s still the same spirited lady we all remember, and you, my friend, need to stop worrying and focus on winning.”

Enjolras grumbles as she finishes the rest of her meal in peace.

The sun is almost at its zenith when she strides back into the arena. The princess is still absent, and the stands buzz with even more excitement than yesterday, if that is at all possible. Enjolras turns her eyes to her opponent, who is still in a full suit of armor, polished and shining. The emerald in the sword’s hilt reminds her of Grantaire, and that strengthens her resolve.

Something about her opponent seems more familiar than Enjolras would like. She recognizes that their fighting style is almost exactly the same as her own. The unknown knight is seemingly able to anticipate every single one of her moves. Enjolras frowns. This does not bode well for her.

As a result, she tries being more unpredictable, thrusting where any opening is given, only to have them all effectively blocked. This frustrates Enjolras to no end, so she works harder and faster. Her opponent seems to tire after many minutes have passed.

Finally, when Enjolras is so close to defeating her opponent, she makes the terrible mistake of looking straight through the grills of their visor. Time seems to stop when her eyes lock with bright blue ones that stare back at her with so much determination, wet with unshed tears. She knows those eyes.

Enjolras kneels.

Her opponent, no, Grantaire, gets up, and the crowd falls silent. Enjolras can only watch her every movement as the herald confusedly announces the princess’s victory and queries after her identity. Everyone in the stands sit at the edge of their seats in anticipation as Grantaire removes her helmet, and her dark hair that must have come loose during their duel flows down her back in thick waves. They all gasp in surprise.

“Thus, I win-” she addresses the crowd and drives the tip of her sword into the dirt next to Enjolras, who doesn’t even flinch, “-my own hand in marriage.”

All of a sudden, the audience bursts into cheering and applause, and someone even whistles. Enjolras smiles at the ground until she feels a bare hand on her shoulder. Grantaire stands in front of her, helmet tucked under one arm and a gauntlet in her hand.

“Rise, knight,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras does so, still in awe of her liege.

“You have made me proud, daughter,” the king says when he and the queen walk in. “I knew that you were capable of doing this from the beginning.”

Grantaire snorts, an unladylike sound, but still all the more endearing, “Please, Father. If anyone else won, you would’ve sent me away without a second thought. Don’t take credit for my victory.”

“Now, darling, please be reasonable. Are you absolutely _sure_ you don’t want to marry anybody?” the queen asks, laying a hand on her shoulder. Enjolras still feels like she is intruding on a private moment.

“I never said that. If either of you ever listened to me, this whole mess would’ve never happened in the first place, so listen to me now. All I want is the ability to choose who to marry. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since you first brought up the topic of marriage. I don’t want a stuffy noble who wants me to just sit there and look pretty. I don’t want you two to pick any knight or prince who just happens to be good with a sword,” Grantaire takes a deep breath before continuing softly, “And my heart isn’t yours to give away… because I did years ago… and she took it with her unknowingly.”

Enjolras stands still, allowing the words to rattle around in her brain. _R is already in love with somebody,_ is all she can think about, even as she bows to the royal family.

“I wish you only the greatest happiness, Your Highness,” she says and nods, “Your Majesties.”

With her back turned, Enjolras never sees the princess gaze wistfully at her back or notices the understanding glances the king and queen exchange.

When she gets back to the inn, Enjolras strips off her armor and unravels the braid her hair was in. Willingly forfeiting to the princess is nothing, but discovering that she’s in love with someone who Enjolras doesn’t know feels like a stab in the heart. Perhaps she was gone for too long. They never even had any correspondence because she was too busy fighting, and Grantaire was surely occupied with her royal duties.

Enjolras is still soaking in her bath when Courfeyrac pops in, bursting with questions.

“Well? News travels fast, but I wanna hear exactly what happened from you!” she exclaims, not even caring that her friend is still very much naked.

“Jesus Christ, Courf! I don’t know what else you want to know. I lost, the princess won’t be marrying anybody anytime soon, and we’re going to be stationed at the palace,” Enjolras replies, not even bothering to cover herself or anything.

“That’s all the common information. I want to know what you’re going to do about it,” Courfeyrac presses. “We all know you’re in love with her. Every time her name was brought up in conversation out there, you were always the first to ask after her. You always think you are more subtle than you actually are, Enj, but you never are about those you care for.”

Enjolras sighs, sinking further into the water, “It doesn’t matter. She’s in love with somebody else. Probably someone she became acquainted with while we were away.”

“Did she explicitly say that, or are you weaving her words into something else?” Combeferre asks, also deciding that the bathroom is their new meeting place.

“Something about giving her heart away to someone who left her, which is unreasonably cruel,” Enjolras mutters, and she unconsciously clenches her fist. “R deserves to be treated better.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange exasperated expressions, which frustrates Enjolras to no end.

“What? Am I missing something here?” she demands, and water splashes out of the tub.

Courfeyrac grimaces, “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

* * *

Grantaire finds herself moping in the palace more often than not. The halls have finally been emptied when her suitors returned home to nurse their wounds and wounded pride. Every day is mundane: dancing lessons, etiquette lessons, piano lessons, and repeat. Joly and Bossuet are still as lively as ever, and they celebrate her victory together with wine and cheese.

Days and nights are spent wondering what Enjolras is up to. Word had gotten around that she and Courfeyrac and Combeferre are now at the palace for good, but Grantaire has yet to bump into any of them. Only once has she seen Enjolras so far, sparring with Bahorel right under her bedroom window. Grantaire could only stop and stare, resting her chin in her hand, at how Enjolras’s hair whips about her face.

When the knight looks up seemingly right at her, Grantaire squeaks and nearly falls out of her chair, face rapidly turning red. After that, she doesn’t dare sneak any more peeks, resigning herself to reading her books. From that day on, any time she catches a glimpse of Enjolras or either of her close friends, she hikes up her skirts and walks in the opposite direction as quickly as her slippers allow. It has been made clear that her feelings are unrequited, so any potential encounters would certainly be more awkward than pleasant.

A few weeks later, the queen announces her desire to hold a ball for some reason. Grantaire has a sneaking suspicion that the purpose is to find her a future spouse, but as long as it isn’t confirmed to be exactly that, she will continue on her less-than-merry way. Preparations are in full swing, and suddenly, the palace is bustling with energy again.

The evening of the party, Joly picks out Grantaire’s most splendid forest green gown, and Bossuet brushes her hair down her back before twisting it into an elaborate updo. Perfume gets spritzed onto her neck, and red colors her lips.

“How likely is it that Enjolras will try to talk to me?” she asks.

Joly hums in consideration, “It depends. As long as your dance card stays full, and she stays at her post, then I think you should be fine.”

Enjolras is a clever conversationalist who always knows what to say, but they haven’t spoken in years. Grantaire wants to know anything and everything that has happened outside of the capital in the past few years. Joly and Bossuet accompany her to the entrance of the ballroom, where she quickly takes in every detail. That means locating Enjolras in the corner, looking gorgeous and stoic as ever. Grantaire envies the knights in their uniform trousers and suits, but she takes the opportunity to stare appreciatively at Enjolras’s figure before approaching the dais.

So many eyes follow her every movement as she is introduced. Grantaire curtsies graciously, and within the span of an hour, she talks to every single guest, who all bow and kiss her hand. She dances with many of them, including Marius, the kind baron she had defeated early on in the tournament. The entire time, Grantaire is entertained by his stories about a girl who he saw once and then disappeared. She grimaces a little when Marius begins jabbering on about how he found a handkerchief and then tried stalking her obsessively.

“I assure you that everything will be fine,” Grantaire says, patting his arm before moving away. She dances with a few gentlemen before Bahorel twirls her into her arms while she laughs. The guard deposits her near the dais and moves away to join Feuilly in spectating. Smiling, Grantaire witnesses Bahorel trying to woo the blacksmith into a dance or two.

She takes a moment or two to rest her feet, simply enjoying the atmosphere and watching others dance. The queen gently nudges her side, and when Grantaire looks at her, she pointedly gestures with her chin. Grantaire turns her head obligingly.

“My lady, if you would honor me with a dance,” Enjolras says, bowing with a hand held out in invitation. Her blonde hair has been braided into a circlet, but a few strands caress her pink cheeks. Grantaire accepts, all thoughts leaving her head when Enjolras brings their joined hands to her lips. A tiny shiver runs down her spine, and just the barest brush of the knight’s mouth on her skin renders her stupid. Everyone stops and stares, parting to make way for the princess.

Dancing with Enjolras makes her heart wrench, reminding her of days when things used to be simpler, and feelings were never a part of their friendship. Enjolras’s piercing blue eyes remain fixed on her face, and Grantaire blushes under the scrutiny. The hand on her waist burns through the fabric of her dress, not necessarily in a bad way, but more as a comforting warmth. They don’t converse in favor of dancing gracefully, shiny black boots matching every step of her fancy slippers. Grantaire lets herself be twirled under Enjolras’s arm before she is brought closer than before. The space between them is so small that she only needs to tilt her chin up and rise onto her tiptoes to be kissed. She doesn’t do that.

The number is over much too soon for Grantaire’s liking, and Enjolras lets her go after bowing to her again. She informs her parents that she needs to take a breath of fresh air to clear her jumbled thoughts, so she escapes to the stables. Deft fingers saddle a horse, which Grantaire urges into a trot. She rides for a couple minutes before she hears the hoofbeats of another, probably a guard to ensure her safety.

Evidently, that is not so.

A hand reaches out and holds onto the reins of Grantaire’s horse, causing her to fall off with a yelp at the sudden change in momentum. Enjolras catches Grantaire in strong arms and sets her down gently. Grantaire’s knees almost give out, but she inhales and exhales for a minute before turning around as steadily as possible.

“Enjolras. Why were you following me?”

Enjolras runs a hand through her hair, effectively dislodging her braid, and it falls over one shoulder. She frowns and replies, “I don’t know.”

Grantaire throws her hands up and cries, “ _You don’t know?_ I know you better than that!”

“Do you? Sometimes, I don’t even know myself anymore,” Enjolras whispers. “Of course, I mean no offense, Your Highness.”

“N-No, of course you don’t mean any offense. Righteous Enjolras, chivalrous and beautiful, could defeat any enemy with a swing of her sword and have any lady swooning for her with another. And yet, you’re here. Why have you come back?”

Enjolras’s brow furrows, “I don’t… what do you mean?”

Grantaire huffs and sits down on a patch of grass, not caring about the dampness seeping through her dress.

“Why did you enter the tournament?” she asks, and when Enjolras still looks confused, sighs and turns away. “You left to fight in a war so abruptly that I had to get updates from _Courfeyrac_. I thought… I thought you wanted nothing to do with me anymore, so I never expected to see you in the arena. You’re doing some good in this world at least, and I’m just a silly princess.”

“R-”

“And I wondered,” Grantaire continues, not giving Enjolras a chance to interrupt. She swallows hard. “Well, I can assure you that everyone else who competed just wanted a chance to have a wife who also happened to be a royal to sit there and look pretty. I was merely a prize for someone to win, but you had always prided yourself to be above that.”

Enjolras clears her throat and asks, “May I speak now, Your Highness?”

Grantaire blushes and nods, gesturing for her to talk. She mentally steels herself for whatever might come.

“To be honest, I never entered or fought to _win_ you. I did for the chance to _ask_ you. I would never hold you to any obligation to marry me, and most of all, I didn’t want to see you marry any random stranger. I tried to win so that you might have a choice, but as it turns out, you were already one step ahead. You might call yourself silly, but you are painfully smart, talented, and dedicated. I have never met someone so capable and independent.”

Grantaire stares at her, mouth open and eyes wide. After a moment of silence, she stutters, “I-I… If I didn’t know better, it would sound like you are trying to woo me.”

Enjolras audibly releases a breath into the night air, and there’s a slight flush pinkening her cheeks. She laughs softly, “Are you sure you know better, Your Highness? Because I most definitely have been trying.”

When the princess takes too long to process this information, Enjolras sighs and stands up, brushing off her trousers, “It doesn’t matter. You’re in love with someone else, anyway.”

_I’m in love with someone else?_ _What? Since when?_ Grantaire asks herself, quickly pushing to her feet. She exclaims, “Enjolras, wait!”

“Please, spare me,” Enjolras murmurs. “I’ve been in love with you since I smacked myself with my own sword for the first time, and you laughed so hard you fell over, so if you would just-”

Grantaire does the only logical thing to shut her up and tugs her down by the collar for a kiss. When Enjolras doesn’t respond, she winds her arms around her neck, and finally, Enjolras snaps out of her stupor to press their lips together more firmly and fold her into a warm embrace. Grantaire parts her lips and rises up on her toes to get closer. When they part, the color on her mouth has been transferred onto Enjolras’s, and she just has to kiss her again.

Enjolras carefully undoes all of Bossuet’s hard work, setting down all the decorative pins before combing fingers through Grantaire’s inky hair. Grantaire does the same, unraveling Enjolras’s braid and unbuttoning the top few buttons on her shirt.

“I love you too,” she says, suddenly remembering. “And I was devastated when you left, but I accepted that nothing would ever hold you back.”

Grantaire raises her chin and runs her fingers down Enjolras’s cheek, gasping when Enjolras captures them with her own and kisses them.

“You make me stupid, m’lady. So lovely, R. The fairest of the fair,” she murmurs against her lips. Grantaire can only melt into a puddle of princess-shaped goo. Her knees finally give out, and she swoons into Enjolras’s arms.

“You sap,” Grantaire says when she recovers. “As much as I hate to ruin this moment, my butt is wet.”

Enjolras stares at her incredulously before bursting into laughter, causing Grantaire to giggle too until they pitch forward into the grass.

“Let me make love to you,” Enjolras says later when the two of them are lying side-by-side, looking up at the sky. “Marry me too.”

Grantaire turns onto her stomach and props her chin up on her hands, smiling. She replies simply, “I will.”

When they enter the palace again, everyone has thankfully departed, and Joly and Bossuet fuss over Grantaire’s soaked dress. She sighs in exasperation while Enjolras stifles a laugh, even though her own clothes are now tinted green. The queen gives both of them knowing looks, especially when Grantaire drags her knight up to her room and locks the door.

“I love you,” Grantaire says sweetly when they are pressed tightly against each other, and Enjolras gazes at her reverently in return. “Now hold me.”

“An honor, my love,” she replies before pulling the covers over them and squeezing her lover tightly. Grantaire burrows into her comfortable mattress and pillows her head against Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras runs her fingers through the princess’s hair until she falls asleep, breathing softly.

* * *

From then on, Enjolras accompanies Grantaire everywhere, and she would not have it any other way. When anyone tries to flirt with the knight, Grantaire takes matters into her own hands, literally, as she pulls her lover down for a kiss. She doesn’t want to call it staking her claim, but that is fundamentally what she is doing. However, if the tiny grin on Enjolras’s face is anything to go by, she certainly does not mind. In return, having such an intimidating figure next to Grantaire at all times is more than beneficial, especially when people don’t know when to give up or back off.

When the pair gets relieved of duties for the day, they often go riding off into the sunset like the princess has always wanted to, but unfortunately, not once has she had to fight off a bandit. Very well then. Once in a while, Grantaire will dismount and simply lie back in a patch of flowers to take a nap while Enjolras watches over her before waking her up with a kiss. Grantaire insists on braiding flowers into each other’s hair, but she ends up doing most of the braiding, however, because Enjolras is absolutely hopeless. The loving stares Grantaire receives are worth it.

On one of their excursions, Grantaire comes across a family of stray cats and insists on taking them back. Enjolras is a bit skeptical, as she doesn’t want to get in trouble with the king and queen, but when her princess pleads with wide blue eyes and an armful of fluffy kittens, she can hardly say no. Eventually, she ends up having to fight them for Grantaire’s attention.

Joly and Bossuet rarely see the princess at night anymore because Enjolras takes care of her, sharing her bed and her heart. By day, Enjolras may serve her princess, but by night, she obtains full reign. When she’s feeling more playful, Grantaire will attempt to tease Enjolras with an occasional flash of an ankle or letting her hair fall over one shoulder and leaving the other completely exposed or wearing nothing but a thin nightgown while pressing up against her. 

In fact, the princess spends a lot of her free time trying to distract Enjolras. Whenever the knight stands guard or tries to write up battle tactics, Grantaire is always there, pressing kisses to her cheeks and lips or toying with the buttons on her uniform with slender fingers. While Enjolras’s outward expression seems unfazed that her gorgeous princess is kissing her, the slight pinkening of her cheeks exposes that she is inwardly being driven to madness, and Grantaire knows in her soul that there will be revenge taken on her later while the rest of the palace sleeps.

Her life has never been more exciting.

“Oh,” Grantaire breathes, a few months later, looking at herself in the mirror. “‘Chetta, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The seamstress grins smugly while Joly and Bossuet both look at her in awe. As far as wedding gowns go, the one Grantaire is wearing is the most gorgeous one she has ever seen, with a train that stretches halfway across the room. The dress is embroidered with tiny flowers, and the sleeves leave her shoulders bare, cinching at her wrists.

“You’re the one who makes it beautiful, Your Highness,” Musichetta says, and Grantaire blushes at the compliment. Her handmaidens nod their heads in agreement.

“I just think I’m lucky to be able to marry Enjolras.”

Joly shushes her, “No, she’s lucky to marry _you_.”

Grantaire narrows her eyes playfully at her and huffs, “We can both be lucky.”

Bossuet straightens her head again, so she can continue arranging her hair until it flows in elegant waves down her back. When Grantaire looks at her reflection again, she starts crying. Joly rubs her back soothingly and murmurs comforting words.

Enjolras’s expression is nothing short of amazed when a fanfare announces the entrance of the princess. The knight in her uniform is still a sight to behold, even more so now that Grantaire knows what she looks like under it. The king and queen say a few words, the priest says a few more words, and before he can even finish, Enjolras dips her and kisses her fully on the mouth for a few seconds. Grantaire resurfaces, flustered and panting, and a little lightheaded at her new wife’s audacity.

They smile at each other and don’t stop, even when the audience claps.

“I pledge to serve you, and only you, m’lady,” Enjolras whispers in her ear much later in the evening. “And your loyal subjects, of course, but I have faith that you will be a most incredible ruler. My sword is yours.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Grantaire exclaims but leans up to accept a kiss.

“Apologies. Now, let’s see how long it takes to get you out of this dress, lovely as you are in it,” Enjolras says instead, already tugging at it.

As it turns out, it takes less than a minute to do exactly that, and another ten until they are gasping sweet words into each other’s mouths. Enjolras kisses her forehead softly and caresses her cheeks. Grantaire’s heart is full with so much love for her and the knowledge that Enjolras loves her back just as fiercely.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my Tumblr [here](http://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/)! I post a lot of memes and stuff, so maybe something will catch your interest. Feel free to send me an ask or rant about how adorable Grantaire is.
> 
> Comments, kudos, or whatever you're willing to offer are always welcome!
> 
> In addition, join the [hoes for enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) server because they're all lovely people.


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